The Panic Zone

38

Rabat, Morocco

The sound of seat belts unbuckling filled the cabin as Gannon’s Air France flight came to a stop at Sale International Airport.

He tried to concentrate on the job ahead but was haunted by what happened in Brazil. He didn’t want to go through anything like that again.

Was he losing his nerve? Or should he chalk it up to jet lag?

Exiting the terminal, he jettisoned his doubts and got into a cab to his hotel. Rabat was Morocco’s capital, and the World Press Alliance had a one-person bureau here. But the bureau chief was on assignment in Tangier.

Gannon was on his own, which made him a little nervous. Rabat was not as big as Casablanca, but terrorism in this region remained a security concern because extremist groups had taken up the cause of al Qaeda. His face was still bruised and he was still shaky from his ordeal with the Blue Brigade in Rio de Janeiro.

He looked out at the city with its modern buildings, mosques, markets and ancient tombs. Feather duster palms lined the main thoroughfares. His hotel, the Orange Tree, was on Rue Abderrahmanne El Ghafiki, in the district of Agdal, Rabat’s center.

Gannon checked in, then, as he had in London, he e-mailed Oliver Pritchett with his hotel information, confirming he’d arrived and was ready to meet Adam Corley as soon as possible.

Gannon then went online and searched for developments on the cafe bombing. Reuters and the Associated Press had each moved items reporting that while no arrests had been made, police had all but ruled out narco gangs. These were obvious follow-ups to his WPA story. It meant the competition was inching closer to his trail.

The phone in his room rang.

“Jack Gannon.”

“Corley. Got your message from Pritchett. Are you familiar with Rabat?”

“No, it’s my first visit.”

“We’ll meet in the medina, when the call to prayer ends in one hour.”

“The medina?”

“It’s the market in the old city. We’ll meet at a little place called the Sun and Moon. Its on Rue des Consuls. Directions are tricky, get the hotel people to get you a map. Be there in one hour.”

“Why not meet here, or at your location?”

“I ran into trouble in Benghazi. I’d prefer to be cautious. I’ve got your mobile number, here’s mine.”

Gannon noted Corley’s number then asked, “How will I know you?”

“I’ve got your picture online, so I’ll recognize you.”

Before going out, Gannon shut down his laptop, tidied his files, then hid them in his room. The concierge was happy to sketch directions for him on a preprinted tourist map. “Very simple. This way, then that way, sir, simple, and you are at the Sun and Moon. Very simple, sir.”

To Gannon, Rabat’s medina was a step back in time. As he followed a network of cobblestoned streets, he saw a group of boys roasting a goat’s head on an open grill. Artisans displayed their handmade wallets, necklaces, lanterns and wood carvings on mats on the ground.

Small cooking fires created haze and seasoned the air. He saw old men bent over antique sewing machines under bare lightbulbs inside storefronts hidden in the market’s shaded narrow alleyways. The medina was choked with people, haggling at stalls and shops over jewelry, leather crafts, vegetables, fruit, pottery, baskets and carpets.

The Sun and Moon was a darkened open-front cafe with six tables and a counter displaying meats, mixed salad and rice dishes, fish and pastries. Gannon ordered a Coke. He pressed the sweating can to his forehead and sipped slowly.

By the time he’d ordered his third Coke, Corley had still not arrived. The calls Gannon had made to his cell phone had not been answered.

He was hungry and ordered a chicken shawarma.

As time passed he was approached by boys offering to give him private tours of the medina, or find him drugs or women. A withered man with an agitated monkey in a cage offered to have his animal perform tricks for him. A one-eyed beggar with rotting teeth put his hands together in an elaborate thankful prayer gesture after Gannon gave him a coin.

Nearly three hours later as the sun sank, Corley was a no-show.

Gannon gave up waiting. He returned to his hotel, where he sent Oliver Pritchett a terse e-mail before reviewing his files in bed.

Gannon did not remember falling asleep.

For a panicked moment he did not remember anything and his torpid brain struggled to give him information as his phone rang.

“Hullo.”

“Jack, Oliver Pritchett in London.”

Gannon’s memory ignited and he recalled his anger.

“Hey!” He sat up, cradling his head with his free hand. “What the hell’s going on? Your guy stood me up! The WPA spent a shitload of money to send me to London then here, and Corley doesn’t show!”

“I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe something came up. This is unlike Adam. I can’t reach him.”

“So what now?”

“I’m going to do something we never do with our people.”

“I’m waiting.”

“I’ll give you his private address. You can go bang on his door.”

“That’s a start.”

Gannon ordered a small breakfast to his room, showered and shaved. When his breakfast arrived he ate as he dressed, then got a taxi.

According to Pritchett, Corley lived on a tiny side street off of Rue Calcutta, in the district l’Ocean, not far from the Kasbah des Oudaias.

The neighborhood was quiet.

Gannon asked his driver to wait, then walked down the narrow zigzagging street. It was a bright, clear morning.

The quarter was deserted; the only sounds gulls overhead. The ancient square houses were small, neat, built of stone. Many had parapets. They were painted white with blues, pinks and greens, their windows covered with wrought-iron bars. Some had flower boxes and planters with palms near the entrance. Others had rooftop gardens or clotheslines laden with garments drying in the sun.

A gull shrieked just as Gannon reached Corley’s address: number 104, a small white house trimmed in coral-pink. He knocked on the wooden door, dark and heavy with its ornate design. A full minute passed without a response. He knocked again, harder this time.

Nothing.

He pressed his ear to it.

Nothing.

He tried to look through the windows, but the ironwork made it difficult. He went around to a small sun-warmed patio. Fragrant from the dozen or so flower boxes, the patio gave him a view over rooftops to the sea.

When Gannon came to the back door he stopped.

It was slightly open.

What the hell?

He blinked, thinking. Then he leaned into the doorway.

“Hello!”

The weather-worn door creaked as he pushed it open to a small kitchen. It was clean with a sand-colored linoleum floor, white shelves, white tiled walls and a gas stove.

“Adam!”

The house was silent as Gannon continued to the living room. Two small sofas with print designs faced each other over a coffee table. Everything was bathed in yellow from the sunlight filtered by the closed yellow curtains.

Everything was in place. He checked the bedroom, the single bed, the quilted spread, the desk, dresser, goatskin lampshade. All in order and tinted blue from blue curtains.

“Adam?”

Gannon moved on to the bathroom.

At least that’s what he figured the next room to be, given the white door was ajar and he glimpsed a mirror. As he reached out his hand to open the door, he hesitated.

The house was too still.

He swallowed.

As he slowly pushed the door open, a prickly sensation shot up the back of his neck. A shoed foot was hanging over the lip of the bathtub. He then saw a hand, an arm, blood splattered over the white tiles, before he met Adam Corley’s eyes.

Staring into him from a wide-eyed death mask.

A sound.

Something moved fast behind Gannon.